Old Dog: New Trick

For an indecisive girl; I can make some pretty good decisions.

When I first embarked on operating a home daycare, I opened the door to any age and stage of child. I had a small group of kids who came here in the morning on their way to school, and I had another small group of children who came to spend their days with me. The mornings were very busy, and typically loud. The television would be on, the frying pans and milk would be out, and large children would be outside bottoming out the trampoline and wrecking my little tykes wagon. (yes, that's bitterness that you sense). Then summer would come along, and I'd have this disparent bunch of kids ranging from diaper-poopers to wagon-bashers. I did my best to grow an extra two brains, seven more arms, and rig up some sort of program that made the older kids think this was a stellar place to play, and make the younger kids make happy sounds instead of whiney, needy sounds.

Mostly, all eight of my heads would hurt, and I felt chronically incapable at following the bouncing babes.

I don't like to say "no". And I don't like to give the message of rejection.
But. I like liking my job.

So, I began to fine tune. First I received no more school age children. Then I encouraged the ones I had to find other arrangements. Then I just started chasing them down the street screaming unkind things like: dummy, yella-bellied snakeskin, sissy... and your mom. And I'd throw moldy baloney sandwhiches at them. Okay, I never did those last two things because I figured I wouldn't get great references that way, and that's what it's all about.

Slow and steady, those spots got filled with little people. My favourite. Kids who play puppy, think a walk is comparable to a week in Cuba, kids who are so secure in themself that they see no issue in pooping their pants, or puking on my $25.00 couch. I thought it was mostly all adorable, and much prefer it to wagon-crushing fifth graders. They think it's hilarious when I answer their "What's for lunch?" question with the politically incorrect retort; "Lips and bums!"

This morning at 7:00 am as I melted into the couch sandwhiched between a cabbage-patch faced little toddler, and a slobbering, furry little puppy, I revelled in the loveliness of it. I didn't miss the plate spinning mania of the years before. I didn't miss the couch lined up with big kids making fun of Sesame Street. In fact, the tv stayed off, and the house was so peaceful that I had to go wake up the daughter not once, but three times.

The puzzles and the blocks would be exciting enough entertainment today. As would animal crackers and fruit and veggie juice served in mini happy face mugs. No one would be bursting in the back door at 4:00 expecting a craft and a snack that rivalled what they'd had in their lunchbag hours back. My jokes would be funny enough, my videos wonderfully lacking in suspense.

No matter if I'm a late bloomer, it's mighily rewarding to get a little assertive, make some changes, and learn to say "no" when it's the correct answer.

Why Its Probably Best That I Never Finished My Degree

.... because then I'd likely expect myself to keep track of all the stuff that comes with running a home daycare.

Take for example; "Debbie". Typically known as a given name for a child of the female persuasion, this is a word, which when expressed by one particular two year old means some-word-which-I-don't-know-how-to-say. Hence, he calls it "debbie" and its up to me to figure out what the item in question may be. But. When its uttered by a particular three year old, and its enunciation is varied to that of "Debra"; it means: "Quick! I'm feeling emotional or tired or homesick and I need that tiny fabric doll that goes everywhere with me. If you don't find it NOW, you WILL have a full blown situation on your hands."

Then there's the child who says; "Me home" in response to most things. This can mean: I have that very same thing at my home ; or I'm planning to take this toy home; or I really wish I were at home right now. All other children interpret "me home" as: I'm going to take away your toy right now, and I will bring it home with me, and you will never see it again. Without appropriate interpretation, total chaos ensues.

No, if I had finished my degree, I'd probably be off doing some really important, world event type stuff. I would expect more from myself than getting through the workday retaining a cool head, and refraining from bashing said head against the kitchen center repeatedly.

How I Nearly Got to Guatamala

This morning, a group of people from our community left on a trip to Guatamala. They packed the maximum allowed baggage full of backpacks, gifts, and school supplies for the sponsored children whom they plan to visit. I imagine that there were also a number of toolbelts to pack, as they will be building a cinder block school house during their stay.





I felt excited about the trip, even though I couldn't even consider joining them. Gloria and Crystal have gone, as well as the grandma of one of my little daycare sweeties. I wished I were joining them.





But today, Brandy took Crystal's job.

Crystal fled the country to go build a schoolhouse.

I took Brandy's son, Mikey.


And that's how I practically flew to Guatamala.


(Micah and Mikey.)

Daycare

Proposed poster (hand scrawled in pink crayon) to hang in local grocery store and bank may read as follows:

Lady in Town opens home daycare.
Its all she really knows. She never finished her degree, which probably has to do with her fear of success and fear of failure issues. On the topic of issues, she probably has a great many. Where a normal person could look at events and quickly categorize them, she has the uncanny and entirely useless gift of mulling things over for years on end. She can take the average monday to friday problem and turn it into a bonified disorder and create drama with very few props and only a slight hint of a story line.

Her brain is multi-faceted and fragmented. This means that she can walk past a stack of fabric scraps on her way to picking up a Robert Munsch story book and get so distracted by their colours and designs that she forgets that she ever invited children into her home to read to in the first place. Hence, when she calls; "Just a minute....", its helpful to think of the Biblical passage that refers to a minute being a thousand years and vice versa. She simply cannot be trusted.

She will burn the last pan of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies every single time. And garlic toast. Having placed said item into the hot oven, her mind will tell her that the task is complete, and she will wander off, distracted by some pattern of light on the wall. In time, she may moan; "Dr Penfield.... I smell.... burnt toast", but by then she's probably scrubbing the bathroom sink with her pants down around her ankles. Having gone into the bathroom to pee, she probably noticed that many life forms have set up colonies and governments in the streaks around the faucet and mirror, so after rising from the throne, she likely has begun to evict them before her bottoms have risen to the level of her own sagging bottom.

As she scrubs, someone begins banging on the door, and she herself fights the urge to bang her own head against the wall. This reminds her of the possibility of other latent disorders and she remembers that she and half her offspring need Dr appointments for various undiagnosed anomolies. On her way to the phone, she notices the stack of information given her by another medical professional. She really should sift through that, make some phone calls, make some decisions and follow through.

But the kids are hungry and the laundry has been hanging in sun and the rain for two days now. All she really wants to do is wander down to the local junk shop to see if there are any more scraps of fabric with distracting colours and prints on them. Then she could wash them and fold them and imagine making things out of them while she is busy tripping over the stack that she folded last week thats sitting on the floor beside the oven.

Right. But I think this was supposed to be about childcare. Right. Okay, so......
About the kids. Hmmmmm...

Right. She's home anyway, so if you needed somewhere to leave the kids because you finished your degree, your kids will probably be happy there. There are tonnes of toys and no one has to be careful about the couches because they are so ugly that she's hoping eventually just to throw them in the trash and find someone else's cast-off that's still in way better shape than her ancient germ-infested lumps. They'll be relatively safe because bad things never happen to her, and she'll never be critical of your parenting style since she's so preoccupied by her own. Sometimes she'll sleep in and not hear you at the door, but then because she's obsessive compulsive, she'll feel so lousey that she'll make you an apple pie and deliver it to your house warm from the oven. And she'll apologize repeatedly. Then she'll wear the guilt and humiliation for so long that she probably won't expect you to pay for the childcare for about three weeks after.

So, anyway. I forget why I was writing this. I think I'll wander down to the thrift shop. Its tidier there.

you ARE the weakest link

"Yes, she said sitting a little straighter in her chair, "its simply good business for me to expect that customers would pay for their daycare spot, whether or not they decide to use it. I get up, don't I? and turn over my OPEN sign? Its not like I get to decide whether or not to work that day, right?"

WRONG!
WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!

Why, just that morning she had decided quite spontaneously to change her work hours. She resolutely slept through one alarm clock, two phone calls, and three knocks on the door.

Oh, yes.
She did.

I Should Expect Days Like This

But then again, what good would it do?
Sammy gets to play captain Up-chuck this time. He doesn't look very powerful though, and he doesn't much want to play.

I guess when you look after kids, and you leave some of your favourite things out, like lets say..... some miniature lustre ware plates.... you should expect to find things broken from time to time. Poo.
Especially in light of the fact that its done nothing but rain or threaten to rain for about fifty-seven straight days and nights now. (Not that I'm counting or anything, because I love being stuck inside with seven pre-schoolers. I mean, I just did it all winter, so its not like I need a break or a change of scenery or anything).

And I suppose that one can't expect all children to be adjusted as quickly as one might like. Especially not speaking children who want to talk about their mother, cry about their mother, and stare out the windows for their mother for eight consecutive hours.

Not that I'm counting or anything.

"Before School"

Maybe it was the sound of a doll's head being bashed against the basement floor. Maybe it was the dollar store guns getting hucked at peoples eyeballs. Maybe it was the kid who said that the morning's pancakes tasted "disgusting". Somewhere in the past one hour and fifteen minutes, some decisions became cemented in my head. I don't have to take a course on "spiritual giftings" to know that its preschoolers who I love, adore, and know what to do with. The big kids with the big appetites (for non-disgusting food) and the big bodies that do big damage to my little toys..... not so much. I like little people who I can scoop up, kiss their softness, strap into a stroller and go explore puddles with. I like little princesses in taffeta and polyester and butterfly heels. I like soft curls, emerging personalities, and the brave defiance of an eighteen month old bruiser. I like goofy words like: "frazy krog" (crazy frog) and"rockanuti" (macaroni).

I recognize the irony. I have three "school-age" children myself. But they are mine. I see my blood coursing through them. I find them charming, excusable, teachable. Even though I'm not exactly sure how to teach them, I feel less of a "fish out of water" because I'm so entirely invested in them. They too tire of big kids coming into their space, filling their home with their sounds, and leaving their marks everywhere.

Of course I feel guilty admitting this all to you. I'd really prefer to see myself as the longsuffering lady down the street who doesn't have the heart to turn any child away. I'll let you in on a little secret. I am actually heartless. Well, perhaps I exaggerate just a little. Still, when considering our short and glorious summer ahead, I think I've made my decision. I shall concentrate on the little people. We'll have picnics and walks and splash in the wading pool. I'll talk in baby-talk and kiss away boo-boos.

So, this lady will have to develop some ability to make decisions, tactfully advise people of the available summer programs, and all of this without offering downcast apologies. I'll never be a business person, I don't really want to be that. But being sane seems like a fair compromise.

I'M GOING ON STRIKE!

Sometimes I just want to throw myself on the floor, have a good old fashioned temper tantrum, yell at my union rep, and just stop being so darn NICE! I want to be able to follow my day planner, hour by hour, take my lunch break, smoke break, and coffee break. I want to renegotiate my contract. I want amendments!

And how about a raise? This is not what I went to school for! (hee, hee, I always think its funny when people strike on that premise. Didn't you go to school so that you could be gainfully employed? Quit your whining!)

And where's my support staff? Where's my janitor? my secretary? my events coordinator? Pierre, the massage guy? Where's the cook? the baker? the candlestick maker? Where's the compensation board? Health and Safety? Where's my company car? My airmiles? Where's my paid holiday time?

Now, I know I'm being ridiculous. I know all the cute stuff about being paid in sloppy kisses and eternal gratitude and warm memories. I know the shtick about choices and the stuff that comes with self-employment. I know the horrer of office politics, whiney people you have to share your coffee breaks with, demanding bosses with sweaty armpits and nasty sweaters. I know the tedium of filing, being the "new girl" for years on end, having a sadistic witch for a supervisor. I know hurriedly packed brown bag lunches consumed in underventilated walk-in closet excuses for staff rooms. I know clock-watching, card-punching, and work evasion tactics.

There's just no clever way to wrap up this little rant about employment. I know I've got it good. I like being my own boss. (well, let's face it, the toddlers are the bosses.....) I really like little people sitting on my lap. I actually like being the flexible daycare lady who rarely says no. I like reading rhymey, silly books for years on end. I love animal crackers and little clothes.

So, my virtual support staff? What say ye? Throw me a bone, would ya?

Profiles From the Pediatric Witness Protection Service

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Dopey:

With the voice of "Tickle-Me-Elmo" on inhaled helium, this little fella can be found hanging around the fridge sniffing at the air, sustaining himself for remarkably long periods of time on hardened mucous nodules, and burning so much fuel on constant , rapid motion that clothes from "mini-me" regularily slide down, revealing his backside.

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Doc:

With a penchant for sound effects and humming tunes from everywhere, Doc lives a not-so-secret life in pink frills with a "lego guy" in each hand providing much needed balance. Has been known to entertain himself for four hours with a set of gummy-candy characters and never actually eat them at all. Too soft a heart to eat such close friends.

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Happy:

Fully aware of his powers, he charms audiences with his dance moves, flawlessly performed to "The Crazy Frog Is Dancing". Given to throwing all things, round or not, and blessed with a deep fascination with the broom, dustpan, and vacuum cleaner. (Don't worry, he's sure to outgrow it before I can turn it to my good use).

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Sneezy:

Wise beyond her years, Sneezy has been known to correct her baby-sitter for calling a backhoe a tractor. How very base of me. Sneezey has recently taken on the position of Assistant to the Childcare Provider, and can be found zipping zippers and buttoning buttons for "the kids" at outdoor play time.

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Grumpy:

Brilliantly disguised as a willful child, Grumpy is highly intelligent, artistically skilled with pencil and colouring apparatus, and would be an excellent candidate for relocation to a culture not bound to deadlines or time management. Grumpy has the prettiest eyes, a charming smile, and the potential to go wherever she chooses to. Very likely to succeed.

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Bashful:

Oh, this one is a charmer. If any evil exists within her dna, it is cleverly disguised under a halo of sunny ringlets that stray across the bluest little eyes you ever did see. If ever one is in need of information from Bashful, she can easily be hypnotised by animated motion. Most likely to become "Thumbelina" in her next lifetime, Bashful could melt any heart of stone. In a surprising twist, she has a hearty appetite and has been known to polish off a full bowl of unsweetened oatmeal at breakfast (her mother's idea, not mine!) and silently consume two entire hotdogs with ketchup for lunch. (My idea, not her mothers...)

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**%$#@** Allow me to ammend this post slightly.

the name "grumpy" should now be reassigned to me: Daycare Lady.

If there is ONE THING that I can NOT tolerate, its being lied to.

I hate it with a deadly hate, and it breaks my heart.